


How do I Love Thee?

by thisstarvingartist



Category: Person Of Interest - Fandom
Genre: Fluffy Porn, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Poetry, Voice Kink, and I really love Reese loving Finch's voice, in which Reese really loves Finch's voice, vague fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-27
Updated: 2014-12-27
Packaged: 2018-03-03 19:25:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2878856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisstarvingartist/pseuds/thisstarvingartist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I could come just from you talking," John told him.<br/>"You-- you what?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	How do I Love Thee?

**Author's Note:**

> Wow I didn't even make it to 1,000 words; in my defense this was gonna be a part of a larger fic but then I realized it didn't quite fit in the way I wanted it to.
> 
> I don't think I've ever jumped into the sex part of a fic so fast. It's literally just porn. Fluffy porn. Can we make that a tag?

“I could come just from you talking,” John told him, nosing at the thick hair around the base of Harold’s cock.

“You—you what?” Harold panted.

“I could come just from you talking to me through the comm,” John confided, kissing Harold’s thigh chastely. “Just from saying anything. Anything at all.”

“…Anything?” Harold repeated, still breathless but now with a hint of intrigue in his tone. John could feel the gears turning in his head, offered a soft lick to the underside of his cock to encourage him.

“Oh Christ—‘ _In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since._ ’”

John looked up at him. “What was that?”

“The Great Gatsby,” Harold replied. “‘ _Whenever you feel like criticizing any one, he told me, just remember that all the people in this world haven’t had the advantages that you’ve had_.’”

“Good advice,” John said, sucking in the head of his cock and releasing it again. “Just—keep talking, Harold.”

“Oh, well, ahem—Pride and Prejudice? ‘ _It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife_.’”

John snickered softly before taking more of Harold’s cock in his mouth. “I’m going to have to argue with that one, I think.”

“Ah, yes,” Harold agreed, jolting beneath John. “Perhaps older romance novels aren’t quite suitable for this situation. Let’s see—

“‘ _The Bee is not afraid of me,_

_I know the butterfly;_

_The pretty people in the woods_

_Receive me cordially._

_The brooks laugh louder when I come,_

_The breezes madder play._

_Wherefore, mine eyes, thy silver mists?_

_Wherefore, O summer’s day?_ ”

“That’s beautiful, Harold,” Joh said, pulling off for a moment to gaze up at him tenderly.

“Emily Dickenson,” Harold replied, gasping as John took him down again. “She’s an artist with words. Ah, John, oh dear—”

“Keep going, Harold,” John murmured. “Please.”

“Oh—‘ _For her this rhyme is penned, those luminous eyes,_

_Brightly expressive as the twins of Leda,_

_Shall find her own sweet name, that nestling lies_

_Upon the page, enwrapped from every reader._

_Search narrowly the lines’_ —oh God, John _—‘they hold a treasure_

_Divine- a talisman- an amulet_

_That must be worn at heart. Search well the measure-_

_The words- the syllables! Do not forget_

_The trivialest point, or you may lose your labor_

_And yet there is in this no Gordian knot_

_Which one might not undo without a sabre,_

_If one could merely comprehend the plot.’_ ”

John sucked and moaned around Harold, his own cock twitching with desire. He felt like he could stay there, forever, listening, touching, feeling—he never wanted to stop.

“God, Harold, your voice. I love your voice.” He was panting, Harold’s cock wet with precome beneath him, both their bodies shaking.

_“‘Enwritten upon the leaf where now are peering_

_Eyes scintillating soul, there lie perdus_

_Three eloquent words oft uttered in the hearing_

_Of poets by poets- as the name is a poet’s, too,_

_Its letters, although naturally lying_

_Like the knight Pinto-Mendez Ferdinando-_

_Still form a synonym for Truth- Cease trying!_

_You will not read the riddle, though you do the best you can do_.’”

John had come somewhere between the second ‘poets’ and ‘the knight’, but continued to cling to the words, listening with devotion and adoration to Harold’s voice, feeling his fingers stutter through his hair, and barely seconds after finishing the poem Harold came with a soft exclamation of his own.

John dropped against him, spent and soft. He came back to himself slowly, the feeling of Harold’s fingers on his face and his cheek on his stomach pulling him back to reality.

“I must have done alright,” Harold murmured, and John laughed, languidly, against him. “I must confess, I’m not the biggest fan of Poe. Although, if you’re going to do _that_ every time I recite his work, I’ll have to memorize some more of his writing.”

John wanted to try to explain that it wasn’t the words that had made him feel so right, that it had been Harold, but he had the feeling that he wouldn’t really be able to explain it in the right way. Especially not to a man who so loved the written word; it wouldn’t make any sense to him.

“He does have quite a roundabout way of saying the obvious, which I don’t so much enjoy; I prefer Elizabeth Browning’s ‘How do I Love Thee’, myself.”

“Let me count the ways,” John sighed, and Harold looked down at him, surprised.

“Oh; so you’ve heard it,” Harold said, sounding pleased. “It is one of my favorites.”

“Yeah,” John said, softly, rubbing his cheek against Harold’s stomach. “Next time.”

“N-next…” Harold stuttered, fingers tightening in his hair for a moment before gingerly releasing, his hand coming down to rest atop John’s arm, which was wrapped around his waist possessively.

\--

_How do I love thee? Let me count the ways._

_I love thee to the depth and breadth and height_

_My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight_

_For the ends of being and ideal grace._

_I love thee to the level of every day’s_

_Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light._

_I love thee freely, as men strive for right._

_I love thee purely, as they turn from praise._

_I love thee with the passion put to use_

_In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith._

_I love thee with a love I seemed to lose_

_With my lost saints. I love thee with the breath,_

_Smiles, tears, of all my life; and, if God choose,_

_I shall but love thee better after death._

**Author's Note:**

> I'll be honest, I've got to side with Harold here--the words he says really are important. However, I can't decide whether I prefer Poe or Browning, in this case. Both poems are perfect, in their own ways.


End file.
